ANCIENT CHAMPIONAncient Champion's Sunset Conversation Early in the A.M. is on Spotify, youtube, bandcamp and so on now...

Next morning he was standing patiently, ready for
action, alongside his expensive catering-quality gas cooker as I
stumbled out of my bedroom.

'Good morning!' he growled
disdainfully, as if I was a decadent wretch incapable of rising
before 8am. The water was boiling for tea; eggs, olive oil, and bread
awaited his ministrations.

The eggs had arrived the night before with Master
Musician Larachi. The bread had been baked that very morning in the
oven of the wife of Mujehid Mejdoubi, one of the last surviving
Musicians to have played on the Brian Jones album. The olive oil was
the product of Syra's olive grove. The water had been captured
during a nocturnal, and quite dangerous, raid on the well of another
village about three kilometers uphill. It was hauled down to Joujouka
by a most unfortunate looking donkey who'd had to bear enough
water, in two large plastic drums, to see five families through three
more days of drought conditions.

**Breakfast at Hamri's, Joujouka style. Warm
up the bread on a griddle, heat some olive oil in a large aluminum
plate, crack four eggs onto the sizzling oil, stir the eggs around
gently until the yolks break, serve while still cooking in their oil,
the eggs to be eaten communally by breakfasters using forks and
bread. Sea salt, Joujouka honey, and piping hot coffee. You mop up
the last of the eggy oil with the last of the bread.

**

After breakfast a frenzy of alarums and excursions
ensued as Fatima arrived to scour the kitchen, the Musicians
gradually slunk in to say goodbye, and Ansari commandeered the same
sad donkey who'd carried the water overnight to haul our bags
down off the blue mountain to the road where we - me unshaven
and grimy, the Painter of Morocco impeccable in his Harris tweed
jacket - awaited a taxi or a bus en route to Ksar el Kebir.

I avoided the burning heat of the midday sun under
a lush palm tree, always shocked to be standing calmly in such a
beautiful spot in this world, always aware of my privileged
situation, always aware that my contemporaries were watching their
years go down the drain as they lay stranded in the middle of less
interesting lives.

Soon a muddy navy blue Seventies Ford Transit van,
converted into a bus of sorts to carry mountain peasants down to the
towns of the plains where they could sell their provisions ‚Äì
herbs, vegetables, hashish, olive oil, eggs - trundled in our
direction and was hailed by Ansari. All fifteen of our fellow
passengers stared at the Ishranee and the dapper diminutive Moroccan
who clambered into the back and sat on a wooden bench bolted to the
floor. Disdainful glances, envious stares, hostile gazes.

We breathed in the exhaust fumes and the chicken
shit stink until we reached Ksar el Kebir, a dangerous, violent,
chaotic city which I quite liked, where we transferred to more
dignified transportation.

An Asilah-bound Mercedes taxi rushed us through
the mid-morning countryside. On this trip Hamri was in the back seat
with me, I stared out the window at the verdant countryside, as I
normally did on these road trips to and from Joujouka. Morocco had
just begun its ongoing process of redevelopment and rebuilding so
there were roadworks all along our route, labourers expanding the
infrastructure so that more trucks, buses, military vehicles, and
Mercedes could whiz around doing their occasionally dubious business.

To our right an earth mover chewed out the side of
an afforested hill to reveal the rust-orange iron-rich soil of that
part of the country.

'You see that clay?' Hamri said to me.
'The colour of it?'

'Yes.' I murmured. 'I was just
looking at it. It's very beautiful.'

'Hah! Very beautiful colour.' he said
thoughtfully and calmly. 'That colour is known as hamri.'

'And
that's where you get your name from?' I asked

'Yes.' he said, looking at me kindly,
looking out the window at a landscape that he virtually owned the
copyright on, then turning away to bark something in Arabic that I
don't understand to our driver, a handsome young man recently
out of the army and recently married.

Joe Ambrose has written 14 books, including Chelsea Hotel Manhattan and The Fenian Reader. Joe is currently working on his next book, Look at Us Now - The Life and Death of Muammar Ghadaffi, which is an expanded version of a story first published in the anthology CUT UP! Visit Joe's website for all the latest info: JoeAmbrose.co.uk.

WRITE FOR OUTSIDELEFT

If Outsideleft had arms they would always be wide open and welcoming to new writers and new ideas. If you've got something to say, something a small dank corner of the world needs to know about, a poem to publish, a book review, a short story, if you love music or the arts or anything else, write something about it and send it along. Of course we don't have anything as conformist as a budget here. But we'd love to see what you can do. Write for Outsideleft, do. [SUBMISSIONS FORM HERE]

UNDERWRITE OUTSIDELEFT with your PATRONAGE of these ART MUMBLINGS

Outsideleft exists on a precarious no budget budget. We are interested in hearing from deep and deeper pocket types willing to underwrite our cultural vulture activity. We're not so interested in plastering your product all over our stories, but something more subtle and dignified for all parties concerned. Contact us and let's talk. [HELP OUTSIDELEFT]